


Spooked

by spnjensenfanfic (whalesandfails)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 09:19:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16784098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalesandfails/pseuds/spnjensenfanfic
Summary: You’re a ghost of an old abandoned factory, one day the building is bought and converted into a hip little coffee shop, you decide to venture out of the rafters to get a job there to pass some time. That’s where you meet a handsome stranger.





	Spooked

You died on August 19th, 1978 at the age of 23. Working at the canning factory wasn’t something you particularly loved, but your sister was engaged to be married and the odd jobs you did around the neighbourhood wouldn’t be enough once you were on your own.  
On that day, you were working a split shift, and so had a few hours to yourself before you started the second half of your job, feeling too tired to trek home, you had chosen to have a cat nap on the wooden benches in the staff lounge. That’s where you were when the fire broke out.  
You were sure you weren’t the only one killed in the fire, it blazed long enough and hot enough to ruin the supplies and put the owners under, leaving it abandoned for years to come. But, you never saw anyone else wandering around the factory the way you did. Perhaps they couldn’t see you either. At least you died from the smoke, you could still feel yourself struggling to catch your breath, feel the heat in your lungs, before it didn’t hurt anymore. Mostly when you were really bored you’d relive this memory, or were feeling particularly antagonistic.  
Slowly but surely, you discovered what you could and could not do, and began to test your limits. You couldn’t leave the dilapidated canning factory; you would leave through one door and find yourself back inside somehow. The logic still eluded you. As the roof caved in and snow came around, you became slowly more able to leave footprints in your wake, and then after a few more years could move plywood around with ease to make a sort of shelter from the cold. It wasn’t until 1999 that you realized you could make people see you, when on a hot summer evening you accidentally spooked a young couple during their illicit rendezvous.  
Passing the time became easier, you stole books out of bags and once the internet became a thing you stole someone’s phone and discovered Netflix. You powered your way through shows and movies, discovering how much the outside world had changed (and stayed the same) since you died. Finding yourself hooked on many shows, Supernatural was by far your favourite (and perhaps the freckled green-eyed young man may have been a favourite, too).  
Another few years passed before men in fancy suits came and took photos of the place and another few months until someone in a less fancier suit came in and grinned widely, looking at the dusty rafters and muddied concrete floor you called home.  
When construction began, you didn’t have very many places to hide; there were people everywhere all the time, and it wasn’t until repairs were done and a quirky hip coffee shop opened up that you began trying to test out how much you could interact.  
The first time, you ordered a coffee to go, wanting to rush in and rush out in case you couldn’t maintain an opaque appearance for too long. You were so worked up about it you forgot how to grab objects, and your drink sat prepared on the counter for a while before the nice barista with a too wide smile brought it to your table for you. After an hour of fruitlessly trying to grasp it and keep up the façade, you gave up. Indolently making your way out of the shop (which just deposited you at the back entrance), you left your mug untouched and felt guilty for the rest of the week. You watched from the shadows as the barista’s smile dipped when he bent to retrieve your mug and found a cold cup of latte, his leaf pattern nearly entirely dissolved in the cooled milk and espresso. You swore the next time you made an appearance you would drink the damn cup of joe.  
And you did. It was a month later with many hours in the dark of the coffee shop at night trying to multitask. A skill you weren’t very good at in life, either. But eventually you got the hang of it. And eventually you strode in, ordered a drink, drank it in full, and shot the barista a wide grin, exclaiming how much you enjoyed it.  
Making the habit of frequently the café visibly once or twice a week and invisibly the rest of the time, the other regulars and all the staff became familiar with your face, and your name, and your presence. You stole sweaters off the backs of chairs and people thought perhaps they had left them at home, after all. You stole a young lady’s gym bag with her work clothes in it and then one more and suddenly you had a wardrobe that would fall lightly to the floor if you didn’t focus on keeping your waif of a body fully present. But you got better and better.  
When the manager offered you a job (“you’re in here enough hours of the week, Y/N, get paid for it and stop purchasing your coffees”), you said yes. And that’s when everything changed.  
You got to know the regulars from the other side of the counter, and it was a totally different experience. Not only did you understand the exasperated sighs of your peers after cranky customers came and left, but you also understood the tired satisfaction after a long shift of caffeinated patrons (if your feet didn’t get tired because you were ethereal and you sometimes hovered an inch off the floor for kicks your peers didn’t have to know that to tarnish the camaraderie you had developed).  
There were a few customers that you loved when they came in. Cynthia was old and retired and loved the modern coffee vibe. She also mentioned how the place used to be a canning factory when she was younger and her kids were leaving home for university, before a terrible fire. You acted shocked and awed, but it was nice for someone to know what you had been, when you had been. She called you an old soul, but really, you were just of the same era.  
Timothy was young and wore suspenders often, lanky and gangly, toothy grin the same as his older brother who worked alongside you. He often had worn out paperbacks from the library, and he’d leave them for you to read and retrieve again a few days later, he was always shocked by how quickly you got through them, but he didn’t know you didn’t need to sleep.  
And Jensen came in, too. You recognized him immediately, he was the actor you loved when you were still lonely and alone and struggling to remain physical.  
And he knew about ghosts.  
He was always so polite, but reserved. His shoulders hunched in the same table in the corner, a baseball cap tucked low over his ears. A southern twang to his pleases and thank yous that would have been foreign to you years ago but with how much people travelled now nobody batted an eye.  
He was different than on the show. And you knew he was obviously a different person, but he strode through rooms the same way Dean did, coiled grace and intentionality. But he made eye contact more, green pools confident in what they wanted and knew how to ask for it. His mouth rarely twitched up on one side, but more often did on two, a toothy grin different from his hard-edged smirk on television.  
He didn’t remember your name for a few months, but he made up for it in the way he said it when he eventually did. A deep baritone but soft and calming. His voice was so musical, you wondered if he could sing.  
He flagged you down as you were taking off your apron one chilly April afternoon, rain streaking the windows behind him. You nestled into the chair across from him, unsure what he wanted. “Here, I saw you hadn’t taken a break this afternoon, and I’m full, please have it Y/N.” He offered you a cellophane-wrapped half a sandwich. Building up a way to decline, you looked into his eyes to find you couldn’t.  
You munched on the half a sandwich gratefully, thinking about the physics of eating with a noncorporeal body, if it was different from drinking, while he returned to his phone and emails. When you were done, he offered you a smile and you both stood at the same time, awkwardly grasping onto the back of your chair. He left with a backward glance at you, sharp white teeth gleaming in the sun outside before turning a corner and disappearing.  
After that, he greeted you warmly. Sometimes with a second sandwich for you, one time with flowers he said were given to him, but the faint blush hiding his freckles told you differently. You chattered away with him at the bar, behind the counter, at his favoured corner table.  
The longer you spoke to him the more you wanted to tell him you were dead but the less fair it seemed it would be.  
You worked up the nerve one day when he brought you a sandwich made from leftover Thanksgiving turkey. You toyed with the edge of the napkin before he tentatively reached a hand across the tabletop and twined his fingers in yours. They were tan and he had thick knuckles, manly hands made feminine by a dusting of freckles. They were warm and heating your small frame almost instantly, you forgot what warmth felt like.  
“Y/N?” He murmured, looking around. You sat stiff as a board. Suddenly it took all your effort to remain physically present, something you hadn’t even thought about for months. Your hand. Your hand in his. This felt infinitely more important than holding onto coffee cups and espresso machines.  
Sighing and breathing out, you met his eyes, concern worrying at his brow. A cool green river peered back. You squeezed his hand gently and he relaxed, too.  
“Jensen, I’m a ghost.” You blurted out suddenly, unsure where it came from but unsure why it had come out now. Your eyes were as wide as saucers, you withdrew your hand from his and covered your face, peaking through pale fingers at his face.  
He was confused at first, brow furrowed, hands scraping along the blunt buzz at the base of his scalp. But only a second of scanning your face with wide innocent eyes framed by eyelashes that should be illegal had him shaking his head and chuckling throatily under his breath.  
“Well, jeez, Y/N, I don’t think you’re that pale.” He pulled your hands from your face and held them loosely in his, comparing his tan hands and forearms to your white pasty skin. Only a moment of inspection passed before he spoke again. “Okay, maybe you are that pale. But hey – that’s okay. We’ll get you out in the sun sometime, all right?”  
You smiled at him, the truth was halfway out, you could get the rest of the way there. Your smile soured, becoming a grimace of determination. “No. I’m a ghost, like on your show.”  
He guffawed loudly at that. “Yeah, ok, ok. Maybe you are a little ghostly.” You thought he finally understood. Understood how this would be how old you’d ever get, how you were stuck here for eternity, never leaving no matter what the land became.  
But then he continued.  
“I never see you outside of the coffee shop, it’s always in here. I swear I’ve looked around town for you before, hoping to run into you somewhere else, but it’s always just here.” He slid his eyes away from yours and towards the window. You were stunned at his confession and the poor interpretation of yours.  
You decided to let it slide for now. Maybe you could work into telling him, reveal little truths as time progressed. “This is my most typical haunt” you managed to get out beyond the lump in your throat. He laughed again. A third time. A third type of laugh. This one was more personal, secret. He shook his head at your weak pun and grabbed onto the leg of your chair, pulling you closer. His arm flexed underneath his sweater, overcompensating for how much he thought you’d weigh, pulling you into him with more force than necessary and causing you to brace a hand against his arm so you wouldn’t collide into him. You really didn’t weigh anything at all, actually.  
But he didn’t seem to notice, just nestled close and began telling you stories of set, of fighting empty rooms with ghosts that would be added in digitally later. He made you laugh and roll your eyes and grin. He braced an arm on the back of your chair, his knee brushing against yours, other arm animated and descriptive. You stayed tucked in the corner like that for what felt like ages but was probably only hours.  
He stretched his arms out, rolling his broad shoulders. You were sure he’d get up and leave. That you’d retreat to the rafters and remember how warm he made you for the next few days until he returned for another coffee. But he just settled in closer, said your name as barely a susurrus of sound under his breath and leaned in.  
You hadn’t kissed anyone before you died, but you were sure it wouldn’t compare to this even if you had. His lips were soft and smooth and full. He cupped your face in a wide palm and breathed you in. And you let him. You got lost. It wasn’t complex or long or intimate, you were still in the coffee shop, after all. He tugged on a few loose strands of your hair and leaned back, lips pink and cheeks a matching rosy, splotchy paint that mirrored how you felt. Jensen held your eyes for a few long moments, and grin broadly. His dimples on either side of his mouth formed, and you couldn’t resist pressing a finger into the one on the right side.  
He pulled you in and kissed the tip of your nose, which you scrunched under his smile. He squeezed you tightly underneath his muscular arm and said he’d see you tomorrow before getting up and making his way out of the shop and around the corner out of view. You had no idea how you were supposed to tell him you were dead now.


End file.
